


The Calling

by Altariel



Series: The Steward and the King [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aragorn and Faramir go to the pub, Gen, Teitho Fanfiction Contest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:27:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24794647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altariel/pseuds/Altariel
Summary: Faramir embarks on the hardest quest of all.
Series: The Steward and the King [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/10901
Comments: 10
Kudos: 40





	The Calling

**The Calling**

**_Captain_ **

With each set of steps, his pack grew heavier. Now the burden was all but unbearable. Faramir pushed on to the top, coming out at last onto a high stone perch in the mountains. Yet another narrow stairway snaked away up ahead. When would they end? He wanted nothing more than for this all to end.

He sat down, resting back against the rock. He was hot and tired and thirsty. Wearily, he wiped sweat from his face, leaving streaks of ash and dust on his fingers. He rummaged in his pack. He washed a sip of scant water round his mouth and chewed some bread, more from duty than desire. Then he rested his sword across his knees and looked out over the black land.

He saw a dark and endless plain, dotted with small fires. Overhead hung the billowing smoke and fumes of the mountain. In the distance, so dark as to be almost invisible, rose the great impregnable towers of the Enemy’s stronghold. Very quietly (he did everything very quietly), Faramir sat and despaired. He had tormented himself over his decision to let the Halflings go. Not for his own sake, or his father’s, or Gondor’s – but for theirs. Had he condemned them to this? A slow parched death among dry rocks? Crawling in the shadows, fearing for their lives? The inevitable capture and long suffering that would follow… Perhaps he should have brought them home, after all. Given them a few short hours of comfort and peace before the end… 

Faramir looked down at his sword. He had, over the years, spent more time with this device than with almost any living being. He had lavished care on it, clasped it, slept with his hand upon it. Now the blade called to him, singing a song of rest and peace and sleep. It would be very quick, he thought. He knew how to make it very quick… 

He turned his head. There was a crack in the rock, out of which pushed a tough little plant crowned in thorns. He reached to touch and nicked his thumb. Sucking away the blood, he found himself smiling. One had to admire such hardiness, such intransigent defence of territory. From his water bottle, he shared a drop or two. “Here,” he said. “You’ve earned that.” This done, he lay down, sword close, and shut his eyes.

In the distance, someone was calling his name.

_“Faramir…”_

A familiar voice. Opening his eyes, Faramir saw pale light trickling through the dust clouds in the east. On the plain below stood a man clad in silver mail with a high helm. Faramir blinked, and the vision was gone. He closed his eyes again. Strange what your mind conjured when you were dying. His father, he recalled, wore mail, all the time. They had joked, he and his brother, that he must sleep in it.

“Father,” he whispered, through cracked lips, “I must rest now. May we speak in the morning?”

* * *

**_Confessor_ **

Here in the hills the air was so clear that Faramir could almost believe he was walking the high passes of Mindolluin itself. Their father had taken them there once, him and his brother, to show them secret pathways known only to the Stewards. They had been so excited, he recalled, although Father had been at pains to impress upon them the seriousness of the whole expedition, since these were the routes by which they might lead their people, should the city ever fall.

The following year, too, they had travelled together, the three of them, to each of the great beacons of Gondor. The Stewards’ pilgrimage, Father called it. Last, they came to Amon Anwar, where their ancestor had sworn a great oath over Elendil’s tomb. The glade had been silent, empty. Elendil was long gone.

Faramir walked steadily uphill. This was not home. His home, by now, was surely burning – the gate broken, the halls aflame, the enemy advancing upwards. They would come in time to the Court of the Fountain, and pull down the tree, and burn the White Tower black, and there was nothing he could do to stop them. He had done everything in his power, and none of it had been enough. 

The day grew old. As he went on, the sun went down, and he became aware of a figure walking ahead – a man in white, garlanded in green. And since there was only one path, and Faramir did not care to go back, he followed the man up the hill.

At last, as the sky turned to flame, they reached the summit. A huge flat stone like a tabletop lay on the ground. The man stopped here, and laid out fruit and herbs, and then turned to face the westering sun. The Standing Silence. Faramir stood too, out of habit, but with little heart. He remembered Númenor that was – the Land of Gift, which his ancestors had squandered – but his thoughts drifted away… 

The man began to sing. Words in Quenya that Faramir had read, and music that he knew by heart, but never heard. The _Erukyermë_ , the spring prayer of the Kings and Queen of Númenor. Who would sing this now? The last note rose and fell away. The world waited. The man turned. Red sun haloed him; his face was shadowed.

“Faramir,” he said. “Are you ready?”

“Ready?” His head fell, heavily. Some new task? “For what?”

“To begin again, Númenorean.”

All around, the air was thrumming, as if Eagles were coming – or a great unstoppable wave.

The sun fell. The sky was dark and the air cold. “But Númenor died,” Faramir said. “So did Arnor, and Arthedain, and Rhudaur, and Cardolan. Now Gondor follows. Why fight? Is not death the Gift of Men?”

And, turning, he walked back down, in darkness.

* * *

**_Comrade_ **

Faramir opened the door. Inside, the inn was warm and quiet. He stood for a moment on the threshold – half in, half out, uncertain. Then he smelled cooking. That did the trick.

In the far corner of the room, by the hearth, sat a man with a hood and a pipe. He beckoned to Faramir to join him. Taking his place on the bench beside the stranger, Faramir leaned towards the fire, and warmed his hands. The man blew smoke rings and watched him from under his hood.

“They’re doing a fine job,” he said, at last.

“Who?” said Faramir.

“The keepers. This place has been a ruin for years.”

Faramir looked around. “I suppose they have.”

Supper came. “Eat,” said the man, and Faramir fell upon the food. He had gone a long way and was famished.

“The Forsaken Inn, they called it.” Now that the stranger had found his tongue, it seemed he intended to talk. “Always a welcome sight for a traveller, ranging round the wild. A fire and supper. Good beer.” He pointed his pipe at Faramir. “Good company, aye, that too.”

“What happened?”

“The Road became too dangerous. No travellers. They closed the inn and left.” The light in the room dimmed. The man pushed on, and the lamps steadied. “And now they’re back. Building. Mending. A little kingdom, from the ashes.”

“I wish them good fortune,” said Faramir, his mouth full. “But is it not premature?”

“No time like the present,” said the man. Putting down his pipe, he pulled back his hood, revealing shaggy dark hair flecked with silver, and keen grey eyes in a pale stern face.

Faramir, startled, said, “I know you—”

The man, reaching forwards, touched him gently on the chest. “ _Arandur_ ,” he said _._ “King’s servant. Of course you know me.” He offered his hand. “What do you say, my friend? Shall we build a little kingdom?”

* * *

**_King_ **

“Faramir.”

For a third time, the call came, and now the voice was unmistakeable. Faramir breathed, lightly; Ithilien on a fresh spring morning. And he woke, at last – to pain and grief and loss. To mending and building. To the first day of new life. To a stranger’s friendly face and healing hands.

“My lord,” he said. “You called me. I come. What does the king command?”

**Author's Note:**

> With grateful thanks to the Ladies of the Garden of Ithilien, for putting up with my running commentary on revisions, and particularly to Sian22, for a sharp suggestion which transformed the whole piece.
> 
> Written for the Teitho Fanfiction Contest May 2020 "Hope" challenge, where it placed first. 
> 
> _Altariel, 4th-6th May 2020_


End file.
